


The Widow's Web

by MutePoetess



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BUT IT'S STILL HELLA SAD, F/M, I WON'T APOLOGIZE FOR THIS ONE BECAUSE IT WAS REQUESTED, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:05:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MutePoetess/pseuds/MutePoetess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Partner to The Hawk's Last Flight</p><p>A rescue to save the Black Widow from a botched spy mission goes horribly wrong, leaving Hawkeye permanently injured and Natasha feeling personally at fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Widow's Web

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PawShapedHeart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PawShapedHeart/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Hawk's Last Flight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084386) by [MutePoetess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MutePoetess/pseuds/MutePoetess). 



> This is partner piece to The Hawk's Last Flight because RedneckOtaku requested to hear the story from Natasha's point of view. I really liked writing this (even though it was super sad). I hope everyone else likes it too! I didn't mean for it to end up being twice as long as the other lol.
> 
> Read The Hawk's Last Flight here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1084386

Agent Natasha Romanoff of S.H.I.E.L.D. was sweating, panting, her back pressed up against her partner’s as hostiles swarmed out onto the roof around them. She, having just been rescued from a torture cell, she was unarmed and not in top physical form. Her fists were up but she and her partner were so outnumbered that even with her gratuitous skill in hand-to-hand combat, she wouldn’t stand a chance. “Clint,” she said, her voice sounding the tiniest bit desperate with her labored breathing.

Her partner, Agent Clint Barton reached back with his free hand to grasp hers. “It’s okay, Tasha,” he said quietly. His other hand held his bow but he’d long since run out of arrows on his retrieval mission. He carried a few concealed knives as well, but with so many foes to face and Natasha hurt, it wouldn’t help. “Chopper’s on the way,” he muttered.

As if on cue, Natasha’s ears picked up the sound of helicopter rotors in the distance. It was approaching fast, but there were probably at least three dozen guns trained on them and one man, obviously in charge, yelling in Russian. “He’s going to give the kill order,” Natasha said, trying to stay calm, but Clint knew her better. He could hear the pleading in her voice. She was hoping he had a solution because she didn’t.

“Right,” he said slowly, as valuable seconds passed. The chopper was closing in, lowering a rope ladder. Clint hadn’t let go of Natasha’s hand, but with the other he slipped his bow over his shoulders and reached into a pack on his hip and Natasha heard a distinct click. The Russian man began to shout for the agents’ execution but, just loud enough for Natasha to hear, Clint simply said, “Flash.” She knew exactly what he meant. Clint was going to throw a flash grenade. A flash-bang distraction, though S.H.I.E.L.D.’s flash grenades weren’t of the relatively harmless standard issue variety.   Just maybe they would make it out of this.

But then, as Clint lobbed the grenade, everything went wrong. The rope ladder bumped against Natasha’s shoulder and as she turned to grab it, she saw the grenade go over her shoulder and behind her, buffeted by the downdraft of the helicopter’s rotors. With it behind her, she would be shielded from the light when it detonated, but she prepared to cover her eyes with her arms anyway, just in case. But Clint didn’t. Clint who was turning toward her, saying her name and making to grab for the rope ladder. Wanting her to go up first. Clint, who was now facing directly where the flash grenade was falling, faster than he’d intended, swept toward the ground by the wind. And as it detonated, too early, it was Clint who caught the extra-strength flash of light full in the face, eyes wide open.

Natasha’s scream was drowned out by the bang that accompanied the flash as Clint, and all of the hostiles who had had no idea what was happening, crumpled to the ground with shock, knocked out cold. She had escaped the worst of the grenade by covering her eyes, but her ears were ringing fiercely. A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent – no, none other than Director Fury himself - was shimmying down the rope ladder and Natasha’s own voice sounded heavily muffled to her as she shouted, “Help me get him up!”  Between the two of them, they managed to heft the unconscious Clint up the ladder and into the helicopter.

After that, everything was chaotic. A medic began examining Clint and Fury made Natasha sit and let herself be treated instead of worrying about her partner. The sound inside the helicopter intensified the ringing in her ears and dizziness set in. She clenched her eyes shut, trying not to vomit, and eventually she felt a prick in her arm – a hypodermic needle – and someone’s arms on her shoulders as she fell into a sedated sleep.

 

* * *

 

The next few days were a frenzied blur. Natasha was kept in a medical room, examined and treated for everything from minute bone fractures to dehydration, everything that had been inflicted upon her when the enemy had discovered that she was a spy. She wasn’t allowed to see Clint yet, but Fury brought her news. Eventually Tony did too, making her realize that they were not in a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility but rather in Stark Tower where the “Avengers” had been living since Tony rebuilt it. A whole floor had been dedicated to medical care and Tony had hired on some of the most skilled and prestigious private physicians.

Everyone was careful about what they told Natasha, not wanting to rile her up, but what she gathered was that in terms of bones and skin, Clint was fine – a few minor scrapes and bruises but nothing serious. If only it ended there. Fury told her that Clint was being held in a medically induced coma while they attempted to treat his eyes and Tony reassured her that he was bringing in the best ophthalmologists and optometrists he could find. “It’s going to be okay,” people kept telling her, but she didn’t believe it anymore than she was comforted by them telling her, “We’re doing everything we can.”

After several days of heavy painkillers and an IV to restore her fluid levels, Natasha demanded to be medically cleared and allowed to see Clint. The doctors consented to the former, too afraid of the look in Agent Romanoff’s eyes to say no, but she was still not allowed to see her partner. They had mumbled something about questionable mental stability and psychological state and that was all that kept Natasha from screaming at them and forcing her way in. She instead posted herself outside of the door of Clint’s medical room, refusing to move until they would admit. Fury threatened to have her sedated again but conceded that as long as she would continue to drink water, accept the meals brought to her, and not try to force her way into the room before she was allowed, she could stay there.

Doctors and specialists came and went, all wearing the same grim look and after another couple days, a resigned-looking Director Fury told Natasha that she could enter. She walked over to Clint’s bedside, Fury following her. “They’ve released him from the coma,” he told her, “but he’s sleeping. He should wake up within the next couple of hours.” Natasha gently brushed her fingers across Clint’s cheek. Suddenly, she was overwhelmed with emotion. She glanced at Fury, not trusting her voice to speak the question without breaking. He understood. “There’s nothing they can do, Natasha,” he said quietly. “The flash grenade… did its job. Completely blew out the photoreceptors in his eyes.”

“So, he’s…” Natasha could barely bring herself to say the word, “blind?”

“Yes,” Fury said. “Permanently.”

There was silence for a few moments, and then Natasha pulled a chair from the corner of the room over to his bedside. “I’m staying until he wakes up,” she said.

Fury nodded and pulled an earpiece and S.H.I.E.L.D. communicator radio out of his pocket, handing them to Natasha. “Here, you know my channel. Let me know if you need anything.” Natasha nodded wordlessly. Fury put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Agent Romanoff,” he said.

 

* * *

 

Natasha spent the next few hours alone. Only after Fury left did she let the tears come, and come they did. Great heaving sobs overwhelmed her. The guilt ate away at her as she replayed the scenario from start to finish over and over in her head. How could she have let this happen? It was supposed to be a simple spy mission, something she’d been trained for since she was a little girl. How had she managed to mess up so bad? They’d caught her. They’d actually caught her. And of course Clint would be the one they’d send in to retrieve her. He probably volunteered for it. He probably demanded to be sent in. All because somewhere along the line, she screwed up and got caught. And now here he was, lying in a hospital bed, changed forever. Eventually, she cried herself out, the tears drying on her cheeks and leaving salt trails. She wiped them away, concerned about what Clint might think, until she remembered that he wouldn’t be able to see her face anyway.

After some hours of silence, she saw the pattern of Clint’s steady breathing break, and his body jolted. He was awake. Unsure of where he was, but awake.  Her first instinct was to reach out and touch him but it would only startle him. She watched the tiny shifts in his muscles as he tested to see if he was bound or not. _Stay calm, Romanoff,_ she told herself. Then she quietly asked aloud, “Hawkeye?”

His posture, which had tensed as he woke, immediately became more relaxed. “Natasha,” he mumbled. He opened his eyes, and they flitted around the room but didn’t settle on anything. Natasha clenched her jaw, pushing away a torrent of emotions. He lifted his hand slightly and she reached over and took it, holding it in hers.

“It’s okay, Clint, I’m here,” she said, trying to remain calm despite the traitorous tears prickling her eyes. “You’re safe.”

“What happened?” he asked her. The question she was dreading.

She’d rehearsed it mentally, trying to figure out what she would say, but it was difficult to know where to start, so she allowed him to instead. “What do you remember?”

“Breaking you out,” he said, “running out of arrows. Waiting for the chopper and then being surrounded.” He squeezed his eyes shut in pain, shaking his head.

“Don’t move so much,” Natasha said, steadying his head with her hand. When she was sure he wasn’t going to shake it again, she continued. “We got out. The chopper came. But they had guns on us before it was close enough. I wasn’t armed,” she said, hating herself for the fact, “and you were out of arrows.” A sob welled up in her chest and she tried to stifle it, berating herself mentally and telling herself to keep it together, but when she spoke, her voice broke anyway. “We used a flash grenade, remember?

Clint’s face had momentarily relaxed at her touch but now his brow furrowed, no doubt as he tried to remember the scenario. After a moment, he said, “Yeah, I remember.”

“But we got out,” Natasha pressed on, squeezing his hand, reminding herself that Clint was alive and that alive and blind was better than dead. “And we got back here.”

“Stark Tower?” he guessed.

“Yeah,” she said. There was silence for a few moments, and then Clint opened his eyes again. He slowly turned toward Natasha and it was just a bit creepy because though it seemed like he was looking at her, she knew he couldn’t see a thing. If he could, the look on her face would’ve instantly alerted him to the feelings she was trying to conceal. She was good at putting on a mask, but he knew the Black Widow better than anyone did, and her tight-pressed lips, watery eyes, and the ever so slight furrowing of her brow were dead giveaways.

But he couldn’t see her, and so he asked the question she was dreading the most. “Why’s it so dark in here?” She tensed up a little, trying to form the words. “Nat?” he asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

“It’s…” she breathed deeply, “not dark in here.”

Clint laughed, actually laughed, not believing her or thinking she was messing around. “What are you talking about? It’s pitch black. I can’t see a-…” and as she watched, comprehension dawned on his face. The laughter all went out of his voice. “I can’t see a thing,” he finished quietly. Natasha only watched for a moment as he waved his hand in front of his face before she closed her own eyes, trying to stay strong for him. She couldn’t stop a tiny sob from slipping through her lips though. “It went off too soon,” she said, carefully, “and you… I think you were looking for me, to let me go up the ladder first.”

“Have Stark’s doctors looked at me?” he asked her, it seemed like he was trying just as hard as she was to stay calm.

“Yes… Stark even flew in some ophthalmologists, but…” Natasha felt like she was confessing to a crime and delivering a death sentence at the same time. “There’s nothing they can do, Clint. It’s… it’s permanent.”

Clint already knew how she’d be thinking about the situation. He squeezed her hand and tried to smile. “Don’t go blaming yourself for this, Tasha. It wasn’t your fault.” She scowled, as taking responsibility for her own actions was something that was very important to her. Clint was wrong. It _was_ her fault. He’d never say he blamed her even if he did. No one would. But she knew, and she would carry that guilt until she died. He shook her hand a little though, to emphasize his point. “It wasn’t your fault, okay?”

“Okay,” she conceded, solely to placate him. He probably knew, but didn’t push the issue further at the moment.

“I’ll get through this,” he said, “I’ll just have to adjust a little.” But just as he knew hers, Natasha knew the marksman’s tells. The clenching and unclenching of his free hand. The slight tremor in his bow arm. The twitch at his brow. He was afraid. Natasha would do everything she could to help him, but from now on, Hawkeye was flying blind.

 

* * *

 

 

The next few months were difficult for everyone as Clint struggled to get his bearings within Stark Tower. All of the Avengers worked together to make the transition easier for Hawkeye, reading things to him, helping him with small tasks, cooking for him, etcetera. At first, he was lighthearted about it and accepting of the help, even cracking a few jokes, but gradually, he got less and less tolerant of people offering aid. As though it was forgetting how to express emotions, Clint’s face settled into a permanent scowl. Natasha was the only one he didn’t brush off and she was by his side as much as she could be. Director Fury took pity on them both and pulled Natasha off active duty for a while so that she could help Clint. He also insisted that she see a counselor, but she refused to do much of anything that would take her away from Clint if he needed her.

But after a few months, Clint became reclusive, taking to long hours in his room alone. All Natasha wanted to do was sit outside his room and wait for him to come out, but she forced herself to continue her normal behavior. Even though she could still see clearly, she was feeling nearly as lost as Clint did, but she also had responsibilities she had to attend to, no matter how much the guilt threatened to swallow her whole. After about four months, Fury put her back in active rotation, sending her out on small missions and gradually working her up to bigger tasks. When she wasn’t away from Stark Tower, he threatened to have her sedated again if she didn’t comply with his condition of seeing a counselor. As the next couple of months passed, Clint slowly became nocturnal. When she could, Natasha would sit outside his door in silence. When he came out, sometimes they would talk briefly, but other times Natasha would sit completely still and watch him pass her by, unaware of her presence.  She wasn’t sure how Fury found out about her silent vigils at Clint’s door, but the Director made Natasha’s counselor give her sleeping medication, which she was to take every night. They made her sleep, but they didn’t give her any peace even in her dreaming.

 

* * *

 

It was one of those sleeps, fitful and fraught with nightmares of flashing white light, from which Natasha awoke to the sound of someone entering her room. She was alert instantly, though she kept her eyes closed, and she shifted her weight as though in her sleep, allowing her hand going for gun under her pillow. The Avengers knew better than to try to enter her room while they were sleeping. A vulnerable Natasha would shoot first and ask questions later.

But the footsteps didn’t move beyond the doorway. “Natasha,” came a soft voice. It was Steve Rogers. And he was using her first name. Natasha didn’t like it. She didn’t like anyone using that name but Clint. It felt too personal. She didn’t move. “Natasha, I know you’re awake,” he said, taking another step forward. “I’m sorry for intruding, but this is important.”

Natasha bit back a sigh of frustration and sat up, releasing her grip on the gun. “What is it, Rogers?” she said, turning on the bedside lamp. She glanced at the clock. Just past four AM. Still dark. He didn’t answer and she looked up at him and suddenly she knew something was very, very wrong. It would have to be something big to get Steve to come into her room at night to wake her up, but the look on his face conveyed the full gravity of the situation.  She’d only seen him wear that look one other time: when Coulson had been killed by Loki on the helicarrier. “What?” she breathed, the icy grip of dread clamping down on her heart.

“It’s… Clint.”

 

* * *

 

 

Everyone was saying that he fell. There had been a gust of wind, or he had misstepped. That it could’ve happened to any seeing person easily, that it was an accident, that it wasn’t so hard to believe that a blind man would fall from the roof of Stark Tower. It was a tragedy, and a terrible loss, and a horrible accident.

But as Natasha sat in the front row, staring at the gray casket through a veil of black lace, she knew better. She had known him to a fault. His habits, his caution, his balance, his poise. Though things had changed after he lost his sight, he knew the roof of Stark Tower probably better than Tony himself did. He wouldn’t have fallen.

But she didn’t say it. And if anyone else had any idea, they didn’t mention it either. People awkwardly offered condolences to each other, and a few even worked up the nerve to approach Natasha, but she didn’t say much. They told her they were sorry for her loss, but she felt like a murderer. Sure, she hadn’t killed him by her own hand, but she might as well have. She left the funeral early, slipping away in silence. Some watched her go and assumed she wanted to mourn in private, to be alone. They saw best to let her go, to check in on her later.

However, when the Avengers returned to Stark Tower, they found Natasha’s door open, the room tidied and vacant, with her S.H.I.E.L.D. ID card and Black Widow belt left sitting on the bed.

And though they looked far and wide on every continent, that was the last any of the Avengers saw of Natasha “Black Widow” Romanoff.


End file.
